Of Fuzzy Socks and Communicable Diseases
by Hidden Treasures
Summary: The Doctor is laid up with a cold and Rose tends to him.


"Rose? Roooose?"

Pitiful whining greeted Rose as she entered their flat, laden down with several bags of groceries. A quick succession of one…two…three… _Jesus_ …five sneezes sounded amidst his third attempted call of her name. She cringed in sympathy as he tried to blow his clogged nose, quite loudly and quite unsuccessfully.

She rounded the corner and saw the most pathetic scene: the Doctor was curled on the sofa beneath two afghans and a quilt, surrounded by used tissues, a half-drunk mug of tea, and a half-filled container of cough syrup. Wait…hadn't that been full just this morning?

"How're you feeling?" she asked, dropping the bags by the entryway to the kitchen and walking over to her sick Doctor.

She pressed the backs of her fingers against his forehead and cheeks; he was clammy and hot.

"Rose," he said dramatically, leaning into her touch. "I think I'm sick."

She stifled a giggle; for the past twenty-four hours, he had vehemently denied that something as simple as the human rhinovirus could possibly infect his superior immune system, despite the fact he'd succumbed to it half a dozen times since he'd turned half-human. (And each time, he'd adamantly denied that he was sick.) She'd nodded simply to placate him, but still spiked his tea with a dissolving tablet designed to boost his immune system.

"Yep, I think so, too," she agreed, cautiously picking up all of the tissues that were strewn around the living room. The trash can was two feet away, would it have killed him to try and aim for it?

"This is rubbish," he mumbled, burrowing further under the blankets, hiding his dripping nose from view. Rose made a mental note to wash them as soon as his cold ran its course. "Human bodies are absolute rubbish."

"Welcome to the human club," she said fondly, grabbing her bag of groceries and hauling them to the kitchen.

She pulled out all of the ingredients to make chicken soup, along with three boxes of tissues and more cold medicine.

"I want a refund," he grumbled from behind her. He was leaning on wobbly legs against the door frame, his blankets wrapped around him like a cape. "Being human is rubbish."

If he'd said that eighteen months ago, she would have spiraled into a panic, thinking he didn't want to live a human life with her. But they'd been living happily together for a year and a half, and now Rose just giggled at his theatrics; she found it more endearing than anything.

"Sorry," she teased, stirring in various herbs and spices to the pot of soup. "That's the deal; you're stuck being human with me."

The Doctor came up behind her and he pressed his front to her back, wrapping his arms around her waist. He rested his chin on her shoulder, his hot, stale breath tickling her ear. She groaned at the thought of his germs spreading through to her, but she had to admit it was only a matter of time before he got her sick. He was even more tactile and affectionate when he wasn't feeling well.

"Not stuck," he whispered, his voice raspy. "Never stuck. I love you."

Rose's heart clenched with warmth; he didn't hold those words back anymore and every time he said them, a thrill shot through her.

"I love you, too," she said, turning around to face him. She draped her arms over his shoulders as his hands rested on her waist. She played idly with his hair as she said, "C'mon, you. Let's get you to bed."

The Doctor waggled his eyebrows at her and pressed his hips to hers suggestively. Rose laughed heartily; he looked absolutely ridiculous. His nose was bright red and chapped, his lips were chapped, his eyes were glazed over and watery, and his hair was a limp mess. He looked almost too drained to walk, let alone be even remotely interested in sex, which was confirmed by the nothingness that pressed into Rose's hip.

"What?" he pouted, pulling away.

"We can do that stuff after you feel better," she said, guiding him to their bedroom.

"Promise?" he asked, nuzzling his face into her neck.

"Yep," she said distractedly, folding down the duvet on his half of the bed.

The Doctor flopped down onto the mattress on his stomach, sprawled across the entire area while his left leg hung limply off the bed. Rose smiled fondly at him. She moved forward to heft his leg onto the mattress, but stopped when his pajama bottoms lifted to reveal his foot.

"Doctor, did you steal my socks?" she asked with amusement, tracing the gaudy multi-colored zig-zags of her favorite pair of socks. He'd given them to her for Christmas after one too many evenings of her pressing her ice-cold toes to his thighs.

"Doesn't count as stealing if I bought them," he said, his voice muffled from his face being squished into the pillow. He grunted as he rolled on his back and lifted his foot to look at his sock. "Besides, I was cold. And they're really quite fuzzy. Aren't they, Rose. Look. I've got scuzzy fox. No. Wait. Fuzzy cocks. Do you like my fuzzy cocks, Rose?"

Rose burst out laughing, and stroked his hair affectionately from his eyes. He whimpered and leaned into her touch. He was burning up now, and she couldn't tell if he was loopy from fever or the gallon of cough syrup he'd drunk.

"Yep, love your fuzzy cocks, Doctor," she said, grinning. "Sleep now, love."

"Stay?" he asked groggily, his eyes fluttering shut in exhaustion.

He sounded so pathetic that Rose couldn't help but agree. After making a pit stop to turn the stove down to let the soup simmer and to grab a fresh box of tissues, she headed back to their bedroom. He was still lying in the same position as when she'd left him.

"If you want a cuddle, you're gonna have to make some room," she said gently.

He opened his mouth to reply but was wracked with a coughing fit. He sat up and leaned forward, chest rattling as he gasped for breath. Rose rubbed his back and winced in sympathy. She remembered the first time he'd ever gotten the flu: she'd worked herself into a panic, thinking he was dying, and his over-exaggeration of his symptoms had done nothing to quell her fears.

Presently, he groaned as he rolled over onto his half of the bed and curled up onto his side. Rose tucked the blankets around him, burrowing him into his own personal cocoon. She slid into bed behind him and pressed her front to his back. He sighed and squirmed backwards until he was as close to her as he could be. She draped her arm over his hips and pressed her lips to the back of his sweaty neck.

"M'cold," he murmured, hugging her arm to his chest.

"I know," she whispered into his ear. "Sleep, Doctor."

"Thanks for taking care of me," he whispered, his voice growing slower and fainter.

"Anytime," she whispered, pressing her lips to a spot just below his ear. "Always. I love you."

He mumbled something unintelligible before his breathing evened out. Rose was tempted to roll out of bed and continue tending to his soup, but he was hugging her arm too tightly and truthfully, she was far too comfortable. The soup could wait. She draped a sheet around her waist and joined the Doctor in a nap.


End file.
